Burning Bright
by Miss Song
Summary: Something is happening in London. People are dissapearing off the streets, and piles of ashes are appearing in their residances. The police are baffled, but Sherlock, as ever, understands. Fantasy AU, Johnlock a whole bunch of OC's.


**_AN: This fic is set in an alternate London, which owes bits of its existence to the excellent Mortal Instruments series. I have also borrowed from Mad_Maudlin's Lupercalia 'Verse and However Improbable 'verse (link here:_** /users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin, **_ please check them out.) I don't own Sherlock, or a lot of the ideas in this fic. I do own Gwen, but you are allowed to steal her if you like._**

**_Anyway, now for the story…_**

London, in the late evening. It has been raining, and every surface glitters with water. The sun set hours ago; illumination comes from the streetlights which set the puddles a-glitter. In other parts of the sprawling capital, people are flocking to various bars, restaurants and nightclubs or stumbling towards the nearest tube station. But here, in the City, the streets are empty.

Almost empty.

Boots built for running smash through the luminous puddles, the sound echoing of the buildings that line the street. The parka lifts behind her like a cape, and her hair snaps in the wind as she turns a corner. Behind her, she hears pursuit _**(footsteps that are louder and heavier than hers (ergo the men (4 men) who are chasing her are much larger than her) but one runs with a limp (she kicked him in the kneecap at a rather painful angle) so they don't heal as easily as her (but they're gaining fast and she can't outrun them like this…)**_

The cloaking charm was useful when she needed to fool them, but now it is a hindrance that she could do without. So she reaches up, her fingers curling around the pendant that bounces on her chest, and tugs sharply downwards.

For a second she staggers, off balance. Her senses expand outwards, free of the cloying boundaries, and the effect is disorientating _**(because she can see every brick on the walls around her (and down every shadowed alleyway as clear as high noon) hear that the men are all around 7 foot (with the exception of the one she kicked (he's closer to 8) smell the wetness and the points where the concrete shell is cracked and earth is exposed and the bush in the pot she passes and old cold marble and the tang of exhaust that has seeped into the stones (and from the men comes the scent of ceremonial wine and incense and the bitter herbs they burned and her own blood smeared on silk (and the explosives she used to blow their chapel sky-high) **_Yes, all very confusing, but she recovers after a second and stuffs the charm in her pocket. And she laughs, because she's won.

The men that chase her are strong and tall and powerfully built, but they are only human. They can only run as fast as a human can.

And Guinevere Holmes isn't even remotely human.

She ran before, but now she _runs, _pushing energy into her legs and ripping the world apart. Autopilot kicks in, which is great because there are far too many details snapping out of nowhere for her to concentrate on little things like not smashing into walls.

She wasn't really aiming for any destination except 'away', so when she ends up on the roof of an office building near the West End, she doesn't waste time analysing how she got there. The run is just a blur of sensation; the burn in her legs, hair pulled straight back behind her by G-force. Running that fast is exhilarating- hurtling through space, blind, deaf, feet barely touching the ground. And it's been _ages _since she pushed herself so far.

Of course, even vampires get tired, and she is exhausted. The ominous clouding at the edge of her vision is starting to worry her, as is the weakness in her muscles and the proximity of the building's edge. Falling off a building unconscious is not in her list of things to do today.

So she jumps instead, spreading her coat to slow the fall, and pointing herself at an empty alleyway. Her landing is off, and the shot of pain as her ankle shatters clears her head enough for her to get up.

The ankle is already healed by the time she's reached the main road. Miraculously, she spots a taxi within seconds. The driver has to help her into the car. Her brain rattles off details _**(forty-something, just got back with his girlfriend, holidays in Brighton, ate lunch in a local Mexican where they serve horse as beef, used to do cocaine but quit 5 weeks ago (around the same time he got back with the girlfriend-she didn't like the drugs (he gave them up for her) **_but she's really not interested right now. Voice slurring, she rattles off the address of the flat she shares with her brother and his mate and lays her head on the seat _**(last customer was a theatre-goer and his wife (she thinks he's gay and spent the ride texting her sister for relationship advice) the one before that was a Japanese tourist with an umbrella…**_

Forty-Something is looking at her worriedly in the mirror. "Do you think you'll be able to get out, love?"

_**Body shutting down fast- unlikely. **_"When we get there, would you ring the bell? My brother will pay you."

He grins sympathetically. "Long night?"

Despite the blackness creeping up her spinal cord, she can't help but smile back. "Something like that, yeah"

For the first time in 2 years, she goes to sleep.


End file.
